The Debt of Hollow Night

The bathroom light flickered, and the steam from your shower curled into shapes that weren't quite natural. You'd been wiping the mirror with the edge of your palm when the glass went cold beneath your fingers — not the chill of winter, but the deep, marrow-deep cold of a place that had never known warmth.

Your daughter's laughter drifted from down the hall, and you gripped the sink until your knuckles went white.

The mirror rippled like water struck by a stone. When it settled, you were looking at a room you hadn't seen in a decade: the grand foyer of Hollow House, its wallpaper peeling in long strips, the chandelier hanging crooked and dark. And there, standing at the foot of the grand staircase, was the shape of a woman made of shadow and old grief.

You forgot me, the spirit said, and the glass fogged with her breath. But I never forgot you. I saved your life once, survivor. Now I've come to collect.

The mirror showed your face — younger, desperate, running through those halls with Rowan's hand slipping from yours.

Midnight. Bring me the mirror from the Collector's wing. Or I'll take what you love most.

Your daughter called your name, and the glass cleared.